


sunday night's alright for fighting

by kakashihatake123



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-30 22:53:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6445516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakashihatake123/pseuds/kakashihatake123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the <a href="http://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/1860.html">valar-morekinks prompt</a>: "They've been fighting for days now, living apart from each other, not even speaking. It's begun to wear so deeply upon them that by now neither one can even remember what they were fighting about in the first place. By now Jon reckons it's time to make up..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	sunday night's alright for fighting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AliceInNeverNeverLand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceInNeverNeverLand/gifts).



> Happy birthday Mere I hope you enjoy your (way longer than I anticipated) present!

Jon had never realized how much the apartment reminded him of Sansa. Every wall bore the memories of the day they had painted and Jon had missed the bottom wrung of the ladder and fallen, his foot landing right in the bucket of paint. Their bathroom sink was covered in her things, hairbrushes, bottles of nail polish, compacts that contained makeup that confused and intrigued Jon.

But the worst was their bed. Every night for ten months he had gone to sleep in that bed cradling Sansa in his arms, her head laid upon his chest, her hands wrapped around his waist, cold, _always_ cold against his skin.

Her pillow smelled of her shampoo, of lavender and coconut and rosemary. On her nightstand lay a gift he had won her at the carnival on their first date, a little stuffed wolf, its black eyes now seeming to stare right at Jon. It seemed like nothing was right without Sansa. For the last week Jon had spent every night feeling as though he had left behind something important, constantly reaching for it, constantly craving to rectify what had been lost.

It was stupid, their fight. Sansa had been shouted at while she was at work and Jon had slept quite badly the night before, up half the night grading papers and looking over tests he had promised his students he would grade days earlier. They had both been stressed and exhausted by the time they got home. Anything would have set them off.

Jon sat back on the couch, eyeing the place Sansa usually sat, her long legs folded under her, her head leaned against his shoulder or against the beige pillow now tucked neatly against the armrest on the other side of the couch. He had been flipping through the DVR and sighed, nearly tearing up when he saw all of her shows recorded there, unwatched, as alone as he was.

Jon was a man of ritual. He took comfort in it. He took pleasure in it. Each morning he awoke at six in the morning and jumped into the shower, bathing himself in steaming water before getting out and kissing his fiancée as she entered the bathroom. They would brush their teeth together, Jon playfully bumping his shoulder into hers, Sansa laughing as toothpaste ran down the corner of her mouth. He would always feel love bubble in his belly then, his heart thumping in his chest at the sight of her eyes gliding down his wet stomach. He always flexed extra hard then, pushing away the cramps that engulfed him not too long afterwards.

Sansa was always quick in the shower and came out just as Jon was finished getting dressed. Her hands made quick work of doing up his tie, on the days he chose to wear it. She would kiss him again then, just because, as she said, and he would laugh when she teased him, trying to press her wet, naked body against his dry clothes.

Most days they would go out for breakfast, neither having much of an aptitude for cooking nor having the patience to clean up the huge messes they inevitably made when trying to cook. They would sit across from each other at the table, Sansa’s foot tracing up the inside of his leg before resting in his lap, wiggling her toes every few minutes in an attempt to get a response from him.

Their relationship did not lack passion. Not in the slightest. In fact there was such an abundance of passion that Jon often found himself sore or bruised or exhausted the next day, after they had finished one of their trysts.

Jon ached for her. He ached to feel her touch against his shoulders or the way she nibbled at the lobe of his ear while her legs wrapped around his waist. He ached all over.

Across town Sansa frowned into her bowl of clotted cream and strawberries- Margaery’s attempt to sooth her. Looking down at it she could not help but remember the time Jon had bought her such a dessert on their second date and she had smiled at him over the bowl, for the first time noticing how dark his eyes were, how deep they were, how much she loved them.

She pushed a strawberry around the bowl with her fork, for the third day in a row wearing her pyjama bottoms, the only article of clothing she had left the flat with. Margaery had let her borrow enough that she did not have to return to the flat to gather clothes for work but Sansa had felt like a bother asking for pyjamas so had instead worn and washed these clothes each day for the last week, growing increasingly sad each time.

She looked down at her phone. Jon had not called. She knew he would not.

Sansa got up from the table and sat down on the couch, flipping through the channels on the telly before finding something that made her eyes swell with tears. It was Sunday night, she realized with growing sadness. She and Jon watched Downton Abbey every Sunday night. Jon would make a service and bring it to the table, the plates covered with scones and biscuits, the pot of tea steaming with chrysanthemum or chamomile or English breakfast. It was their tradition. She wondered if he was watching without her.

Margaery had gone out with her brother to celebrate his engagement, leaving Sansa pitifully alone and without means of distraction and as she had already did her nightly laundry and gone all the way to level sixty on Candy Crush she had exhausted all her entertainment options. She knew she could watch Downton Abbey. But she would not. Not without Jon.

Jon could not even remember what they had fought about. It was so bloody foolish that it had escaped his memory, bogged out by all the sadness and self deprecating thoughts that had consumed him since Sansa had left. He had tried to run after her, wandering out into the street after her in nothing but a pair of flannel pants and a pair of reindeer slippers. He had even gotten locked out of his apartment and had been forced to call Robb, who looked very critically at him before bursting into laughter at his best friends choice of dress.

But now he was alone and sad and not watching Downton Abbey, even though it was Sunday. And he could not even remember what they were fighting about.

Sansa looked down at her phone again. She pursed her lips, setting her jaw. This was absurd. It had been a week already. A week without Jon, a week that seemed as long as a month. Maybe even a year.

She missed him so completely it felt like she was missing a part of herself, perhaps a limb. On Wednesday when she had made a completely nerdy joke about the Library of Alexandria he had not been there to laugh with her. on Thursday when Jeopardy had been on and a question about his favourite author had come up he had not been there to answer it. And now Downton Abbey was playing with nobody to watch it with her.

Sansa stood straight up, forcing away her bowl. She tried simultaneously to grab her keys off the side table and pull on her boots and the coat Margaery had lent her, failing miserably at all three tasks. Finally she managed to get everything done, running downstairs and to the car she had parked across the street.

The drive was agonizingly long. Again she thought of Jon and how he always invented road games to make long drives seem shorter. She smiled to herself, remembering the time he had spit out the window and tried to see if it froze instantly. He had seen it on the web a few days before, somehow not reading the caveat that said not to attempt such a thing if the wind was blowing in ones direction. But Jon’s non-frozen spit hitting her fiancée in the face did make the drive from London to the country seem shorter.

Sansa pulled up before the flat and threw the car into park, barely even locking the door before she ran inside the apartment, running passed the lift and taking the stairs four at a time. She fumbled with the keys, her cold fingers barely having time to thaw- she had forgotten her gloves of course- so that she could unlock the door.

Inside the flat Jon turned to look at the door, hearing the familiar jingle of his soon to be wife’s keys against the door. His heart jumped into his throat, a smile on his face forming.

“Sansa.” He said breathlessly when she threw open the door. All the colour had drained from his face in nervousness. She was wearing the same pyjamas she had worn when she left, with the addition of a coat he recognized as one of Margaery’s.

She crossed the room in a matter of seconds, hitting him with a force that knocked him backward, her lips crashing into his. Her mouth tasted like sweet cream and her lips were stained red from strawberries, moving against his desperately.

It felt like it had been a year since he had kissed her. a year since he had touched her, felt her arms slip around his shoulders, her hands dancing down his back, slipping down to the waist of his pyjama pants and lower. He gasped when her hand cupped his arse, her nails dragging gently across the soft skin. He pushed off his glasses, hearing them clink as they fell against the carpeted floor. 

She moaned loudly, struggling to remove her coat. Jon nearly ripped it in his haste, pushing it down around her shoulders and letting it fall to the ground. She crossed her arms to grip the hem of her shirt and pulled until it came off, revealing she wore nothing beneath.

Jon grinned, dipping his head low to kiss each breast one at a time, his fingers massaging, teasing, stroking. It was desperately fast yet desperately slow. He wanted her all at once, every part of her, now. And yet he wanted to take his time, show her exactly how much he missed her.

They did not make it to the bedroom, nor even the couch, sinking into each other on the midst of the carpeted floor in the living room, the flickering TV bathing them in colourful light.

Sansa gasped against his neck when he pushed into her, rolling the lobe of his ear through her teeth, pulling hard enough to make him moan. Her lips moved to his shoulder, kissing down the slope of his neck and across his shoulder, tonguing the tattoo he had gotten the night they were engaged. She paid special attention to the scar on his chest, her teeth dragging across one nipple and then the other, the heat of her mouth making them pebble.

Jon tried his hardest to be slow, gently, deliberate. And yet the arch of her back and the curve of her hips and she matched his rhythm was torment and he could take it no longer, hoisting her into his arms and moving faster. She melted against him, their bodies tumbling backward until Jon was flat on the ground with his fiancée atop him, her breasts soft against his bare chest.

She moved her hips, straighten up and leaning backward, her hands resting on his thighs to balance herself. One of his hands was at her waist, keeping her steady, the other moved to play with her nipple before moving to the other before it could get too jealous. He was close. He could feel the slow build in his stomach, pleasure washing up and down his body like wave. And he knew she was as well, the way her nose crinkled and her eyes pressed shut signaled her impending orgasm.

In the last few seconds he pushed himself up, meeting her halfway, her body pressed flushed against his, her legs falling on either side of his legs, his hips thrusting upward and upwards and upwards. Jon came with a rallying cry so loud that he was sure his dog was not awake, his moan mingling with Sansa’s as she met her peak with him. he gripped her tightly, feeling her body give and sink against his, the thin sheen of sweat she had worked up making her glow silver in the light.

He wanted to speak but could not, his breath coming so ragged that he could not get a word in edgewise. Sansa seemed to be having the same predicament, her head resting in the crook of his neck, her breath a tickle on his chest, as they sunk down to lay side by side. Her leg curled around his waist, as it often did in the night, her head finding its familiar place on his chest, just between his shoulder and his neck.

Jon’s fingers curled around a strand of crimson hair before tucking it behind her ear, as he knew she liked. He could feel the carpet, not-uncomfortably- digging into his back as he lay upon it. It was another minute before he could catch his breath and when he finally did he managed to say: “Perhaps we should fight more often.” He mused, teasing.

He could feel Sansa smile against his chest, her fingers absently tracing his arm. “Mmm.” She moaned in agreement, her eyes half lidded. “Just not on Sundays. I don’t ever want to miss Downton Abbey again.”


End file.
